Paper Cuts
by coolbyrne
Summary: Like a paper cut, this fic’s quick and might sting a little. Sara wonders how things have gone so wrong with Grissom.


TITLE: Paper Cuts

AUTHOR: coolbyrne

RATING: The very generic PG

CLASSIFICATION: GSR, rather angsty

SPOILERS: None.

DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, by all means.

DISCLAIMER: Me owning/making money from CSI?  Now there's a real piece of fiction.

FEEDBACK: Compliments/constructive criticisms are greatly appreciated.  Flames will be mocked in other forums.  Send any combination of the above to: fugitive@ihateclowns.com

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I thought I'd try something from Sara's POV.  Not sure if it actually works, mind you.  As always, to those actually responsible for CSI, Grissom and Sara.  (Did I mention I don't own them?)  Special kudos to WP and JF.  And to my beta reader, papiliondae, who isn't actually responsible for CSI, Grissom and Sara either, but is somewhat responsible for this… at least all the good stuff.

SUMMARY: Like a paper cut, this fic's quick and might sting a little. Sara wonders how things have gone so wrong with Grissom.

*

It's not what you thought/

When you first began it/

You got what you want/

Now you can hardly stand it, though/

By now you know/

It's not going to stop/

It's not going to stop/

It's not going to stop/

'Til you wise up

-Aimee Mann, "Wise Up"

(Yeah, ask me if I was dragged into the well of angst after listening to that.)

*

She was on her way to the locker room and showers to scrub off another shift of grime and death.  Having pulled overtime on her shift again, she wasn't surprised that the day crew had already started, but she was a little surprised to find a light on in Grissom's office and Grissom in it.  Figuring it was as good a time as any to bring him up to speed on her case, Sara leaned into the room, but stopped when she saw him, eyes closed, headphones on, finger tapping softly on the desk.

Apart from the faint muffled sounds of music and the occasional tap of his finger, the room was absolutely still. Yet the silence didn't unnerve her the way it did many people.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  She reveled it, finding it a soothing respite from the cacophony of noise and clatter of every day life.  

And so she stood there in silence, unseen and unheard by the man who had turned her life upside down. Listening, observing, wondering.

What was he listening so intently to?  Whatever it was, it had captured his attention, and she strained to hear any trace of a familiar refrain that would give her an answer.  

His brow creased in a small frown, oblivious to the audience at the door.

What was he thinking?  Was he dissecting the melody, examining the cadence and meaning, or was the music simply a catalyst to an entirely different line of thought?  'There was a time I would have known,' she thought ruefully.

The rhythmic tap of his finger drew her attention to the desk.  Her eyes brushed over the back of his hand to the ends of his square-tipped fingers.  She knew what those hands felt like; she'd experienced their touch once, a lifetime ago in San Francisco.****

It had been a demanding case they had been working on.  They had been pulling double and triple overtime and had fallen asleep together on the couch of his hotel room.  Sitting up, shoulder to shoulder, head to head. Somehow during the early hours of the morning, they had made the groggy and silent decision to forego generating the strength to get up and make formal sleeping arrangements.  Instead, they had stretched out and spooned together on the couch.  When she awoke hours later, his arm was around her waist, his hand tucked in tightly against her stomach.  It was the first time she could remember getting eight hours of perfect sleep.  She had found strength in his touch and a comfort in his company.

Years later, she would find herself wondering what had happened to it all, to them.  Like an amputee who still felt the tingle in the phantom limb, she felt the flutter in her stomach and the tightening in her chest whenever they were together. And yet he wasn't really 'there' these days, was he?  With his distance and his avoidance.  Their times together were growing fewer and farther between it seemed, and in those brief moments they got to share, her gaze was barely met, the flutter in her stomach rarely soothed by a look or a word or a touch.  On the surface, it stung like a paper cut, and in those quiet moments she thought she enjoyed, the pain seeped into her heart and grew into a dull, throbbing ache.

What had happened?  How had things gone so horribly wrong?  And how could one person hold the heart of another in his hand and not even know it?****

Unceremoniously interrupting her thoughts, her stomach growled its own sentiment.  She released a despondent sigh.  Aware that the answers to her questions weren't going to be forthcoming from the man behind the desk, regardless of whether or not he heard her, she turned to leave.

"Sara."

Startled at his voice, she turned back quickly. The hand she had rested against her stomach to quiet the hunger now tried to ease another, familiar feeling.

'I won't look at him,' she vowed.  'I won't look at him.'  And was immediately drawn into his blue eyes.

He pulled the earphones off and placed them gently on the desk.  "What are you doing here?"

"That's a good question."  She chose not to answer the query in his eyes. "I was just going to let you know how that John Doe case was coming along.  Not important, though.  Nothing that can't wait."

"Okay."  He picked up a pen and began signing off the stack of papers on his desk. 

She pressed her lips together.  'I guess I've been dismissed.'  Her sigh wasn't one of disappointment; she had been on the receiving end of similar dismissals.  Her sigh was one of sad realization.  For the second time that morning, she turned towards the door.

"I'm going to head out for some breakfast.  You're more than welcome to join me if you like."

She stilled, processing his words, slightly amazed that just as quickly as the new cut was inflicted, his invitation had tempered its sting.

 "If I like?" 

"I'd… I'd like it if you came with me."

'Is this what they mean by 'Once more into the breach'?' she wondered.  

She closed her eyes briefly.  How many times had she been here, just another place in time?  In his doorway, in a San Francisco airport, in his life?  It was like picking at a scab and re-opening the wound; his words had both the ability to heal and to injure.  'Can you see me standing here, Grissom?  I'm bleeding all over your floor. I'm battered, I'm bruised, and I just don't have the defenses for this thrust and parry that we do.'  Biting her bottom lip to redirect the pain, she tilted her head and gestured over her shoulder with her thumb.  

"I, uh… I gotta clean up, take a shower," she said by way of refusal. "Some other time, maybe."

She recognized the sudden flinch in his gaze, because she had experienced it enough times herself and knew full well the sting of a paper cut.  She took no joy in knowing she had caused it.

He gave her a quick nod.  "Some other time," he replied, before picking up the headphones in order to avoid her eyes.

Tucking her thumbs into her pockets, her fingers subconsciously tapping out the music she had heard earlier.  She rocked back on her heels as the room returned to its silence, as it had been when she first arrived.  The flutter in her stomach subsided and now, on her third attempt, she left.


End file.
